After the Fall

After the fall, a new season blossoms. Pollen of ships scatter across oceans. Geography becomes modified once again. Liberation at last! Fists in the air as the sound of helicopters fade out. Those damn colonizers are gone! The Vietnamese people are now independent. They are no longer subordinates to the French or Americans or Chinese! At Last! At Last!

At least, more people did not lose their homes. At least, more people were not killed in this war for liberation, for democracy, for independence or whatever. At least, the little boy with bowl cut hair sipping on his bowl of chao got the luxury to watch Scooby Doo on such a big tv in such a big suburban neighborhood in such a big city like San Jose. What is this fall you call?

I never learned of "Black" April until I got to college. I had thought Sai Gon and Ho Chi Minh City were two different cities. When a few of my friends used Ho Chi Minh City instead of Sai Gon, I was puzzled. What did each connote? I recall a time when we had some sort of heritage day in kindergarten on the the grass field, there were flags of so many nations. I remember seeing the flag of Viet Nam which my teacher had to point out for me. I did not know "my own flag"? Red body with a yellow star in a middle. I never knew? I had always thought it was yellow with three blood red stripes. Or maybe, the red, white, and blue flag. I am an American after all. What flag do I raise? Why do I have to raise a flag period?

Knowing that I come out of this history, I wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for the war, for the Fall of Saigon. My parents were privileged to had lived in an urban area where war did not take place in. They did not feel the war until the Fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975 when troops marched into their city (can't remember the city at the moment). They were not seeking for opportunities like other immigrant groups in the past, they were seeking a new home. I am not too sure whether they've found it yet either. Little Saigons, Lion Plazas, and Grand Centuries scream out a Viet Nam of the past, before the war, before this Fall. Even the blood-lined flag we use to represent ourselves is all of rebuilding a nostalgic, romanticized past. You see it in Paris by Night. You hear it in the voices of Vietnamese karaoke'ers--the rural sorrow, the industrial happiness.

I can mourn for all who have died because of war or the boat experience, but I do not know if I can mourn for the loss of a nation. If I were then I would be mourning the exodus for my existence and the foundation of my identity.

Born

My body lays on my bed with a sea of blankets and ships of pillows.
My head facing up to the ceiling patched with glow-in-the-dark stars, green like greed.
My arms near my chest as if they were confined by shackles.
My legs bent, my knees to my stomach.
My body in fetus position.
I become me coming out of my mother's womb.

Born crying to a new world,
my eyes start to open
to the ER blinding lights.

I sleep in this darkness
so
I can wake again to the light
and be born again.

Ba Noi

I can still remember the tobacco in her mouth,  the constant chewing of her mouth that made the wrinkles on her face dance, the fabric wrapped around her head like a hood that covered the grayness of her hair.  Ba Noi, my grandmother, my father's mother, was one of the two women in the house: my mother and her.  

I was 7 at the time and I had just moved into my brother Thuan's room.  Before, I had slept in my parent's room where every night was a Chinese movie night.  I used to stack the black tapes pretending they were sky scrapers.  I would see how many tapes I could stack until it collapsed.  One time, I made a tower of tapes surpassing the height of my adolescent body.  I also remember the tape rewinder we had that looked like a car.  It was ironic that the car did not rewind as fast as the VCR. 

It took me awhile to realize that the movies were Chinese dubbed in Vietnamese.  I had always wondered why the lips sometimes did not match the the melody and the rhythm of the Vietnamese langauge  and why sometimes the ambience sounds were obscure.  I suppose I was too used to the animation of cartoons on Nickelodeons where characters' lips moved up and down like a nutcracker.  Up and down.  Up and down.  No variation.

It took me awhile to understand my grandmother.  From what I can remember from my childhood, I did not have a great relationship with her.  What I do remember was I looked down her and I was ashamed of her.  I looked down on the tobacco she chewed throughout the day. I was ashamed that she could not speak much English and was always in the house, immobile.  I was ashamed to bring my white friends home, fearing they would see me differently after they had seen my grandmother.  I looked down on the cave-like room she lived in, like a bear, like a vampire--always in the dark.  

I often teased her and let her chase me up stairs to my brother's room.  Her raspy voice, groaning of old pain would circulate the empty house.  My premature, pre-puberty voice gigling, laughing like I meant it.  I still regret doing all those terrible things to her.  My grandmother used to take care of me.   She became my my mother when my real mother could not take care of because her work--putting together angel dolls for a company--a few cents a doll.  My grandmother loved me, but I did not love her back until after her funeral, after I grew up a little bit more after that.  Thank you/Sorry Ba Noi.  

Dots

I stare at the dozen dots on the cheeks of Wendy's picture on the cup of coke. Her red hair. She must be Irish. Her freckles. She must be white. Her silky white skin that blended in the snow colored cup--cold and icey. Her pony tails. She's so much like the girls at my elementary school.

I could still remember my first crush. Her name was Melanie who also had these dozen dots on her cheeks. Before she moved away, she had promised me to bring turkish delites to school for me to try. Our class had gotten done with the book "Narnia" and I had no idea what those British candies were. My child mind conjured up turkeys, Thanksgiving, Indians, and Pocahontas after I had read about it. Of course, my ESL-mind was wrong. I was always corrected not by people, but by myself. I would think things, have preconceptions, then get corrected later on by experiencing, see, hearing, feeling. That was how I learned as a child. And I still learn that way even up to today.

Melanie never came back. Melanie never brought those turkish delites for me to try. Even though I knew she was going to be gone forever, I still waited. This was my first experience with "longing". I still have never tried turkish delite. Whenever turkish delite comes up, I think of this memory. I think of my initial preconceptions of what they were. I think of her generosity. This could be Thanksgiving. I was the Indian and she was the white settler. I had no idea what this British treat was and she was willing to let me into her world. It never happened.

Perhaps, I should offer some of my things to others too. I should make it happen

Stages

The VSA Culture Show is coming up in a few weeks: April 19th at 5 PM At Zellerbach. The title of this show is called "Monsoons". I play the nameless "Warrior" who tries to save a village from starvation and a drought. He journeys into the jungle to find the sacred spring that can save the village. Ironically, in the end, he causes the unleashing of an evil spirit worsening the problem. It is supposed to allegorically reflect the history many Vietnamese Americans came out of: The Viet Nam War and its many paradoxes in revolution, nationalism, heroism, change, oppression, and displacement. Woo, so many key words!

I've never given actors much credit for their talents. Acting is pretty hard I must say. I know it's all psychological. I have to be in the mind of the character, not just the body; I'm still waiting for my costume. Hopefully, by then, I can get into character more. If I had been given an insane, funny but meaningful, or villainous role I think I would have fitted those better. Besides the stress and anxiety of memorizing these darn lines, I am pretty excited to be on stage acting for the first time ever. Come see me! SUNDAY, APRIL 19th, ZELLERBACH, 5 PM, $13 presale, $15 at the door.

I've been down lately. Another stage.... My taste buds don't work as well anymore so food doesn't taste as great. My stomach is constantly aching, So does my mind. My nose is always congested because of the weather--it's so nice out, too bad I could never enjoy sniffing the flowers like how it is in cartoons when depicting spring and its beauty. Music doesn't sound as good anymore either. It feels like my speakers are dying or is it my ears, or is it the pleasure I take from listening to music?

I can't sleep sometimes. I constantly think about things I shouldn't even be thinking about. Circles. Reoccuring shapes and scenes and faces.

I sit with my face down to a ground I used to walk on when I was a Freshman, unfamiliar and unaware of my placement. I hear the doors closing like an orchestra of secrets. Behind those closed doors, I wonder what happens. The knobs lock, why should I bother busting the door open? Knock. Knock. My face still to the ground reliving what I could've, should've, would've been through. We are placed at certain times, just like music--right and exact--about perfect--no, it must be perfect. They suddenly stop. Gone. It's dark. Night Time. Behind the same closed doors, laying down next to you, secrets are revealed we both become vulnerable in darkness where our shadows do not linger. Safe again? really?

I am here. Again. And I wonder why I keep on coming back.